« AnteriorContinuar »
And, like loveliness panting with wild desire
While it trembles with fear and delight,
Hesperus flies from awakening night,
Fast flashing, soft, and bright.
Thou art hidden
FINAL CHORUS FROM HELLAS.
The world's great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
Her winter weeds outworn :
A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
Against the morning-star.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
The splendour of its prime;
Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than many unsubdued :
O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Of bitter prophecy.
40 TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.
The serpent is shut out from paradise.
The wounded deer must seek the herb no more
In which its heart-cure lies :
The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower Like that from which its mate with feignèd sighs
Fled in the April hour.
I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain.
Of hatred I am proud, — with scorn content ;
Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown
But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent.
The miserable one
Turns the mind's poison into food, Its medicine is tears, - its evil good.
Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,
Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly
Your looks, because they stir
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : The very comfort that they minister
I scarce can bear, yet I,
So deeply is the arrow gone,
When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have ever been.
You spoil me for the task
Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,Of wearing on my brow the idle mask
Of author, great or mean,
In the world's carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.
Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot
With various flowers, and every one still said,
“ She loves me loves me not.”
And if this meant a vision long since fed
If it meant, — but I dread
To speak what you may know too well : Still there was truth in the sad oracle.
The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home;
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest,
When it no more would roam ;
The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam,
And thus at length find rest.
Doubtless there is a place of peace
I asked her, yesterday, if she believed
That I had resolution. One who had
Would ne'er have thus relieved
His heart with words, — but what his judgment bade Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.
These verses are too sad
To send to you, but that I know, Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.